


Staccato

by MellodramaticLawliet



Category: DC Extended Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: 5 and 1, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, M/M, Touch-Starved, and alfred needs a raise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23608837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellodramaticLawliet/pseuds/MellodramaticLawliet
Summary: Clark starts to notice how effected Bruce is every time they touch... but is it because of him, or the fact that Bruce is in dire need of some serious physical affection?-I had a lot of feelings about Touch Starved Bruce Wayne, so please enjoy this extremely gratuitous superbat fic.
Relationships: Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 24
Kudos: 507
Collections: DC Universe





	Staccato

1)

The meeting itself wasn’t super important. It was mid-afternoon, and they were all sat around the table in their civvies as Arthur and Barry ate Doritos by the handful. They’d gotten some intel on Luthor since his most recent escape act from prison, but it wasn’t enough to actually go out and look for him.

Clark was the one presenting because although it was Bruce’s algorithm that had guessed Luthor’s (relative) location, Bruce himself looked about ready to keel over. In fact, Clark wasn’t entirely positive he was awake at the moment. It wouldn’t surprise him if Bruce had trained himself to sleep with his eyes open… And at the risk of his own health and safety, he decided to find out.

“We’ve managed to make an estimated guess as to what city Luthor is currently holed up in,” Clark gestured, pacing to his right just behind where Bruce was sitting, eyes still trained unblinking on the screen in front of them, “Thanks to Bruce here, and his algorithm.”

He emphasized this statement with a light pat to the side of Bruce’s shoulder as he walked by. It was meant to be a friendly sort of pat, but Clark _accidentally_ allowed his fingers to trail lightly along Bruce’s back as they left his shoulder. He was sure no one else had noticed, but his fingers tingled where they’d touched him, as they always did when he touched Bruce.

What surprised him though, was the small intake of breath he heard, and the way Bruce’s heartbeat picked up rapidly, as though Clark had shaken him or something. This would’ve been imperceptible to the average person, but luckily for him, and unluckily for Bruce, “average,” Clark Kent was not.

 _Was he actually asleep?_ Clark nearly faltered in his presentation, _Or was that something else?_

Okay, probably not something else. He mentally chided himself. There was no use getting his hopes up.

Still, he couldn’t resist clapping a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and leaning in to say, “Maybe if you’re tired enough to fall asleep during League meetings, you should actually go to bed before 5 am, Bruce.”

He heard snickers from Arthur and Victor, and even Barry and Diana were holding back laughter as Bruce jolted in his seat, glaring reproachfully at Clark, “I wasn’t asleep.”

“Sure you weren’t.” Clark rolled his eyes jokingly and carried on with the meeting, noting the strange expression that had flitted over Bruce’s face when he’d said he wasn’t sleeping.

If he wasn’t asleep, then what was _that?_

2)

The second time it happens they’re sparring in the Hall’s training room. Clark has a sliver of kryptonite in a necklace around his throat, and its proximity to his heart was making him slightly nauseous, but despite the worried looks Bruce kept shooting him, he insisted on it being there.

He needed to be able to fight off enemies with more hand to hand training while in a weakened state without his powers... Even if Bruce had just kicked his ass about 20 times in a row.

This time though, as Clark started to square up, Bruce just smirked at him. It was a tiny quirk of the lips, but Clark felt a little weak in the knees anyway. He’d blame it on the kryptonite if anyone asked, but everyone else in the League probably knew better at that point. Excepting Bruce, of course.

While he was distracted by the smirk, Bruce stepped up close and reached out a hand, and Clark was even more thrown for a loop, “Bruce, what-“

Before he knew what was happening Bruce had pulled the kryptonite pendant from it’s place around his neck and tossed it into the corner, “One round.”

Clark felt instant relief flood into his system, the nausea lifting instantly at the absence of the pendant. He knew what Bruce meant; it would still take a few minutes for the effects to wear off fully, and Bruce wanted to know if he could take Clark down in time.

“One round.” Clark rolled his eyes, ducking into a fighting stance, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” The corner of Bruce’s mouth lifted into another smirk, but this time Clark could read the real meaning behind it. He didn’t mean that Clark couldn’t, but that he trusted him not to.

It’d been years since Clark managed enough self-control that he started to believe he would never accidentally hurt anyone, but the cloud of doubt still lingered at times. It meant a lot to him that the most untrusting man on the planet had that much faith in him.

In the next few minutes, Bruce got in a lot of good hits, and came very close to incapacitating him at one point, but the kryptonite hadn’t pierced his skin, and the effects wore off just in time for Clark to catch a hit that would have probably wiped him out. The next thing they both knew, Bruce was on his back, Clark gently pressing a knee into his sternum.

“Damn.” Bruce grumbled, but Clark could tell he wasn’t really all that put off. Probably because Bruce had just spent the past two hours wiping the floor with him, but still.

Clark chuckled lightly, standing from where he’d been kneeling on Bruce’s chest, and offered a hand. Bruce only hesitated for a second before accepting it, and Clark hauled him to his feet, their hands lingering for a few extra seconds.

Clark could feel the rough callouses on Bruce’s fingers, and would normally have reveled in the brief moment of contact if he hadn’t been distracted by the sudden increase in Bruce’s heart rate.

He glanced up just in time to watch Bruce glance away, pulling his hand back gently, and Clark realized belatedly that they’d been holding on just a bit longer than usual. Bruce’s face was slightly flushed, and Clark realized that maybe all this fighting was more exerting to him than he’d thought.

“Let’s take a break.” He suggested, not missing the way Bruce’s eyes didn’t quite meet his, “We can go drink those gross protein shakes you like.”

Bruce huffed, but Clark didn’t miss the way the slight tension in the air instantly evaporated, “Fine. But then we’re coming back so I can kick your ass some more.”

“Sure, Bruce.” Clark smiled, honestly just glad he’d gotten the stubborn man to take even a small break.

3)

The third time happens after a mission. It’d just been the two of them - Bruce hadn’t thought that the whole league was necessary to take out the Riddler - but he’d still chosen to call Clark in for the assist which had made him unbelievably happy.

Happy enough to annoy Lois at least, who had been over for wine night when he got the call, and had promptly told him to “wipe that stupid grin off his face and go help his boyfriend.”

Clark hadn’t even protested that one.

But the Riddler had brought backup, and now Bruce was down, a nasty looking dagger stuck in between two of the plates on the front of his armor, and Clark nearly killed Nygma in his rage.

Luckily Bruce had woken up by the time Clark managed to get him back to the Batcave, but he’d taken a pretty nasty hit to the back of the head during the fight. He’d slurred his answer just enough when Clark asked him if the dagger had pierced his skin that he decided to check just to be sure.

With a great ripping sound, Clark tore the front of the batsuit along one of the seams and practically peeled it off of Bruce’s huge chest, trying very hard not to stare too much. A quick once over with his x-ray vision revealed yet another cracked rib, and Clark lamented the fact that Bruce would probably still go on patrol tomorrow anyway.

There was no visible blood anywhere on Bruce’s chest, but it was hard to tell under all the bruising - which made Clark want to throw up just looking at it - and he ran a hand over his exposed side just to be sure.

He nearly yanked his hand back when this elicited a full body shiver, Bruce’s breaths coming in shallower than before. He glanced up to find Bruce’s eyes boring into his, pupils blown wide, and his heart was racing.

“Did I hurt you?” Clark felt a spike of anxiety, of course he’d hurt Bruce, he shouldn’t have touched his bruises like that.

Bruce shook his head quickly, “Y’r fine.” He slurred, moving his arm in some sort of aborted motion like he was going to catch Clark’s hand where he’d pulled it away from Bruce’s torso before he could do more damage.

There were goose bumps all along his partially exposed arm though, and Clark thought back to the time Clark had touched him in the meeting room, and again when they were training. Maybe that was just Bruce’s response to being touched…

He couldn’t stop himself from resting a tentative hand on Bruce’s chest, on the unbruised part of course, “Don’t scare me like that.”

Bruce’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly, and Clark felt a pang in his chest. They stared at one another for a moment, a strange tension in the air between them, before Clark decided to break it.

“I’ll go get Alfred.” Something in Bruce’s eyes told him to stay, but Bruce didn’t make any moves to stop him, so Clark gave him one more pat, listening to the staccato of his heartbeat and left to go find Alfred.

He thought a lot about his new discovery as the elevator took him to wherever Alfred was no doubt putting out other Wayne related fires. Did he react like that whenever anybody touched him, or was it just Clark?

He knew he was overthinking it; Bruce’s spike in heart rate was probably from years of being Batman and having people trying to kill him left and right, but that didn’t explain the way he’d looked at Clark when he’d run a hand over his side. Almost like Clark had offered to strip him naked and do a full body examination.

Not that Clark would be opposed…

“Ah, Master Kent.”

Clark hadn’t even noticed the elevator stop, and now Alfred was standing before him with a knowing look in his eyes.

“Alfred, just the person I wanted to see.” Clark smiled, “Bruce is down in the Batcave, I don’t think he’s severely injured, but he hit his head and one of his ribs is cracked again.”

“I see.” Alfred nodded as he joined Clark in the elevator, like cracked ribs were a daily occurrence, “Is it Tuesday already?”

Clark rolled his eyes, though the ever present worry for Bruce’s health lingered. They rode the elevator quietly for a moment as Clark tried to figure out how to work his next question, when Alfred broke the silence himself.

“You’re very good for him, you know.”

“What?” Clark blinked at him in surprise, “I’m just looking out for him, it’s what anyone on the league would do.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow like he could see through Clark’s flimsy excuse, “Master Bruce doesn’t receive a lot of affection, and even more rarely does he give it out. You seem to be the exception.”

Clark wracked his brain, trying to figure out the last time Bruce had been affectionate towards him. It was surprisingly easy to conjure up a mental image of the small smiles Bruce sometimes sent his way, the jokes and the jabs both during League business and just around the Hall, the way he made sure to leave his superman mug out whenever Clark stopped by the Batcave…

“Huh.” Was all Clark could think of to say about this revelation.

“Indeed.” If Clark didn’t know any better he thought Alfred might have been smiling almost wryly at him.

“I did have one question about Bruce though.”

“Ask away.”

“Does he, uh…” Clark rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, he couldn’t believe he was actually asking Alfred this, “Does Bruce ever get any, uh… physical affection?”

“Physical affection?”

“Like from you or the kids.” Clark hurried to clarify, not liking the amused look in Alfred’s eyes, “I noticed his heart rate picked up quite a bit when I was making sure he hadn’t been stabbed.”

“Master Bruce has never been, as you might say, a very “touchy-feely” person.” Alfred answered honestly, though the amused look never left his face.

“I can see that.” Clark huffed.

“The children also prefer their personal space, for the most part.” He continued, “So no, I don’t imagine Master Bruce receives a lot of physical affection.”

“That’s a shame.” Clark suddenly felt sad for Bruce, though he was sure if he were here Bruce would insist it was better that way and list some lame excuse.

“Indeed.” Alfred agreed, “He could probably use some more, if I dare say so myself.”

Clark glanced at him questioningly, but didn’t get the chance to ask as the elevator doors opened to reveal Bruce, not only already up and on his feet, but in the midst of sharpening one of his million batarangs.

“Bruce!”

4)

“Hey.”

Bruce jolted in his chair like Clark had tased him, muttering something darkly that even Clark had trouble picking up with his hearing.

“I thought I heard you still puttering around down here.” Clark walked up to stand beside him, staring up at the wall of screens that took over this portion of the Batcave, “You know it’s five in the morning, right?”

“Would you believe me if I said I just woke up?”

Clark gave him a once over, noting the deep bruises under his eyes and the coffee stain on his shoulder, “No, I wouldn’t.”

Bruce snorted, turning back to his screens, “It was worth a try.”

“Not really.” Clark raised an eyebrow, “Seriously Bruce, you’re going to kill yourself one of these days.”

“That’s my business.” Bruce retorted, though it lacked it’s usual aggression. There was an exhausted undertone to his voice that almost made Clark tired just hearing it.

Gingerly, he set a hand on his shoulder, intending to say something else promoting sleep, but froze when Bruce seemed to unconsciously lean into it, thinking back to what Alfred had told him the day Bruce had been injured by the Riddler.

“Bruce.” He muttered, sliding his hand slowly up from Bruce’s shoulder to curl into his surprisingly soft hair.

To his surprise, instead of shooting him full of kryptonite, Bruce’s eyes practically rolled back into his head, and he groaned in a way that sent electricity shooting down Clark’s spine.

He felt nearly frozen in place as he continued to card his fingers through Bruce’s hair, Bruce himself leaning into it, his breaths coming in an unsteady rhythm as his heart beat an increasingly familiar staccato against his ribs.

Cautiously, Clark stepped closer, leaning his hip against the armrest on Bruce’s chair and Bruce leaned his head against Clark’s chest, gently enough not to dislodge his fingers from his hair, letting out a deep sigh as he did.

Clark figured if he was tired enough to not only be allowing this, but indulging in it, then he must have reached his breaking point a few hours back, “Alright, stand up.”

He groaned again, and Clark forced himself to ignore his body’s immediate reaction in favor of bodily lifting Bruce out of his chair and into his arms. In no time at all, they were in Bruce’s bedroom, and Bruce wasted no time in shucking off his shoes and falling face first into the pillows.

Judging by his breathing, Bruce was out like a light the second his body hit the bed, but Clark still took the time to brush a stray strand of hair out of his eyes.

“Night Bruce.” He whispered, flying straight through the window, and into the night, trying not to think how cold his side was now that Bruce wasn’t leaning against it. 

5)

The fifth time happens after a really rough battle. They’d gone head to head with The Batman Who Laughs and won by a hair… but The Flash was injured. It was no one’s fault really, but of course Bruce treated it like a personal failure.

His injuries weren’t extensive, but they were bad enough to warrant being put in a drug induced coma while he recovered, and Clark was starting to think he’d have to physically drag Bruce kicking and screaming from Barry’s hospital bedside.

The whole League was worried; he even caught Arthur leaving a stuffed “get well soon” teddy bear from the gift shop on Barry’s bedside table as he left to get some rest himself. The glare he sent Clark’s way warned of kryptonite laced tea if he ever told anyone, but Clark couldn’t help telling Bruce the next time they left to get “shitty” coffee from the vending machine in the hall.

“It’s nice to know Arthur really cares about Barry.” Clark was saying as he watched Bruce take a sip of his vending machine coffee and make a face at the taste, “Also, why drink that if it’s that bad?”

“Arthur cares, he’d just rather die than admit it.” Bruce snorted softly, “And because not all of us have alien stamina, Clark.”

“Just like someone else we know.” Clark eyed him pointedly and Bruce rolled his eyes but didn’t contradict him, “And you could just go get some rest. The others have been coming in shifts.”

Bruce broke eye contact at that point, suddenly becoming very interested in the cup in his hands, and the little curls of steam it was emitting. Clark could see the classic Wayne Brooding look building in his eyes and knew exactly what Bruce was thinking.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Bruce grit his teeth like Clark had said something truly offensive and glared up at him, “If I had been just a little bit faster I could’ve-“

“Being fast is Barry’s job.” Clark smiled wryly, “Your job was to see that the plan worked the way we needed it to, and it did.”

“But if I had done it three minutes earlier-“

“Then you might’ve gotten injured, or I could’ve, or Diana…” Clark frowned, “You can’t stop every bullet, and you can’t keep blaming yourself every time someone gets hurt. Sometimes it’s our faults, and sometimes it’s no one’s fault. People get hurt, Bruce, that’s just a fact of life.”

Bruce looked like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t come up with a good enough response, and Clark added a tally to his mental Arguments Won Against Batman counter. They watched one another in silence for a few moments before Bruce simply sighed, running a tired hand over his face.

“I know that deep down.” Clark’s heart nearly broke at the lines that seemed to appear instantly under Bruce’s eyes, as though he’d been hiding them by sheer willpower until that point, “But sometimes I really can’t help it.”

Clark, surprised to the point of being almost overwhelmed at the fact that he’d gotten Batman to admit that something _maybe_ wasn’t his fault, unthinkingly reached out a hand to squeeze Bruce’s shoulder in reassurance.

Instead of shaking him off or rolling his eyes though, Bruce immediately responded by setting his coffee down on the nearest surface and leaning forward with his whole body until the two of them were pressed up against one another, chest to chest, with Bruce’s hands tentatively resting on the small of Clark’s back.

It took Clark a moment to realize he was being hugged. That Bruce was hugging him. Not only willingly, but he’d _initiated_ the hug. He couldn’t help but think it would’ve been a great moment had it not been under the circumstances, and if his senses weren’t being bombarded by antiseptic and the beeping of machines and monitors throughout the building… but it was still nice.

“Wow,” Clark let out the breath he’d been holding, his arms coming up to wrap around Bruce’s shoulders, “Batman is hugging me.”

“Shut up.” Bruce grumbled, though the effect was ruined as he pressed his face into Clark’s neck, inhaling deeply.

Clark felt his heart melting for the man in his arms, and if he hadn’t been sure about his feelings before – he had been – then he definitely knew in that moment that he was deeply and irreversibly in love with Bruce Wayne.

Bruce’s chest was solid against his, and Clark could feel his breaths coming unsteadily. His hands were clenched where they rested on Clark’s back, and Clark wished he could take away even a fraction of Bruce’s pain for him.

He slid one hand up to card reassuringly through Bruce’s hair like he’d done weeks ago in the Batcave, and the effects were immediate and identical. Clark thought he’d have been able to hear Bruce’s heartbeat even if he had regular human hearing.

“Bruce?” Clark didn’t know what he wanted when Bruce’s name had escaped his lips, but when their eyes met a second later, their breaths hot against each other’s lips, he knew that he had to kiss Bruce right then and there or he’d die.

“Excuse me, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce and Clark sprang apart like the nurse, who was currently standing about five feet away, her face a deep shade of red, had thrown ice water on the two of them. Bruce, naturally, was the first to recover.

“Yes? Do I need to sign something?” He’d had to clear his throat once or twice, Clark noted smugly.

“I was told to inform you that your friend’s recovery has started to wrap up remarkably quickly, and we’ve just taken him off of the medication keeping him under. He should wake up in the next few hours or so.” She was glancing curiously between Bruce and Clark, the initial embarrassment at finding them wrapped around each other clearly gone.

“That’s… good news, thank you.” Bruce nodded, seeming rather unaffected, but Clark could see the tense line of his shoulders loosen just a fraction.

“No problem.” The nurse nodded, turning to leave, “Ring if you need anything else.”

She left, and a loaded silence filled the hallway in her wake. Bruce seemed to not quite want to meet Clark’s eyes, and as soon as Clark opened his mouth to say something, he turned briskly toward the door, “Barry’s system has probably already gotten rid of the drugs, he’ll be up any second.”

And with that Bruce was gone, leaving Clark alone in the hallway with the steaming cup of shitty vending machine coffee, and the lingering warmth from the near kiss they’d shared.

+1)

Bruce avoids Clark like the plague for a week after Barry goes home from the hospital, and it takes Diana threatening to get involved for Clark to finally summon up the wherewithal to brave stopping by Wayne Manor.

“Ah Master Clark,” Alfred greeted him with a cheerful air that loosened Clarks nerves a little bit, “It’s good to see that at least one member of your team knows how to knock.”

“That security system seems pretty expensive,” Clark chuckled, “Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

“Yes, I should think not.” Alfred stepped aside and ushered him in through the door, “Master Bruce is in his study, though it’s safe to say he’s already aware you’re here.”

He wouldn’t be surprised if Bruce had implanted a tracking device in his person at this point, so he nodded in lieu of a response, “Thanks Alfred.”

“Of course, Master Kent.”

He found Bruce exactly where Alfred said he’d be, hunched over his desk, trying to look hard at work on the paperwork surrounding him, though his heartbeat gave him away instantly. The rhythm was the same rapid staccato that Clark heard every time he closed his eyes lately.

“Clark.” Bruce didn’t bother turning around to face him, which irritated Clark to no end, “Do you need something?”

“Yeah.” Clark, feeling a sudden mixture of resolve and petulance wash over him, strode over to Bruce, his hands coming up to settle on his hips, “I do actually.”

Bruce turned to look at him for the first time, and Clark saw the poorly concealed anxiety dancing in his eyes. Or perhaps Bruce just wasn’t trying to hide it at all… That was a new one.

When he spoke, his voice came out as barely a whisper, “Name it.”

“You.”

The word seemed to startle both of them for a split second, and they stared at one another for a long moment before Bruce let out a slow breath, clearly trying to cover up how hard he was smiling. In the end the smile was what did it. What finally broke Superman.

The next thing Clark knew he had two fistfuls of Bruce’s shirt and a pair of lips pressed against his. The kiss was a little awkward and didn’t last very long… but the second one did.

Clark’s hands had gone from doing their best to tear Bruce’s shirt to nesting in his hair instead, and Bruce wasted no time in pulling him in by the waist until there was barely a hair’s width of space between them.

The kiss was everything they’d both been holding back for weeks, months, _years_ even… but Clark was done keeping count. His whole body ached like he’d been dehydrated for days and Bruce was the first sip of water; he just couldn’t get enough.

Clark gently ran his fingers through the short hair at the base of Bruce’s skull and Bruce flat out moaned against his mouth, his hands stuttering where they’d been exploring underneath Clark’s shirt. Clark laughed breathily, moving to kiss along his jaw.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that.” Clark whispered against Bruce’s throat.

“What?”

Instead of replying Clark slid a hand back into his hair and tugged slightly, eliciting a full bodied shiver and sigh from Bruce, who promptly turned red, “You noticed that?”

Clark moved his hand back to cup Bruce’s jaw, bringing their lips back together, “You’re not as slick as you think.”

“Mm,” Bruce hummed, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband on Clark’s jeans, “I can be pretty slick when I want to be.”

Clark nearly felt dizzy with how quickly all of the blood in his body rushed south, but was prevented from responding by the door crashing open behind them.

“Oh gross!”

“Took you two long enough.”

“I’d wolf whistle but Dami has his sword on him.”

“…This is going to be a thing now, isn’t it?”

Clark jolted backwards, a hand coming up to separate himself further from Bruce as he turned to face Damian, Tim, Jason, and Dick respectively. All of whom were currently standing in the open doorway, faces revealing different levels of shock.

“Did you boys need something, or are you just here to embarrass Clark?” Bruce would’ve seemed perfectly composed had it not been for his incredibly rumpled shirt and wildly messed up hair, Clark noted smugly.

“The Bat signal is up, and the news says it’s the Joker.” Dick raised an eyebrow, “But I can tell Gordon you’re a little… tied up at the moment.”

There were various snickers from the peanut gallery, and Bruce scowled in a way that would have been menacing to anyone that didn’t know him, “I’ll be there soon, take Tim.”

“Yes!” Tim raced out of the room followed by Dick, while Jason shrugged, and Damian looked incredulous.

“But Father-“

“Nope, don’t want to hear it, you two are backup this time.” Bruce ushered them all back out the door, closing it behind them with a sigh. Clark bit back a grin as he leaned in to steal one more kiss before Bruce had to go.

“You still sure you want me?” Bruce raised his eyebrows questioningly, “I come with a lot of trouble.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Clark grinned.

**Author's Note:**

> This is (surprisingly) the first superbat fic I've ever written and I honestly don't know how I feel about it  
> Leave a comment down below if you'd like to see me write more!


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